Darkness
by ShadowsOnTheMoon
Summary: Wren has always been fascinated by Spencer, who in turn was captivated by his apparent charm. But things take a dark turn when, determined to have her all to himself, he kidnaps her. His true nature is revealed, but is it too late for Spencer? Will she ever be able to regain her freedom?


**This story is... different. Those of you who know me are well aware that I am a huge Wrencer fan, so it might surprise you to know that this is not a Wrencer love story. This is the prequel to a Spoby story I'm working on (****_Iridescence_****, keep an eye out for it). Yeah, I don't know where it came from either.  
This is an AU story. Spencer and her family are from Philadelphia. She has never been to Rosewood, and consequently has never met Alison, Aria, Emily, Hanna, Toby, or any of the others. She does, however, know Wren, although she doesn't know just how unstable he is.  
This story is pretty dark. I've rated it M just to be safe; it's not explicit, but it does mention things like rape/violence/etc. So take care reading it, okay? And don't forget to let me know what you think. I don't normally write things as dark as this, so feedback would be much appreciated.**

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_"I swear these walls have been talking to me," she says,  
"'__cause all I hear are the devil's wishes."  
She feels his breath down her skin and bones.  
~ Lost in Darkness - Escape the Fate_

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

When she opens her eyes, she doesn't immediately understand what has happened. There is nothing in her surroundings to give her any clues: she's in an unfamiliar room, which is dark and very bare. The only piece of furniture is a bed to the left and slightly behind her, and when she turns to look she hears a faint jangling. Her gaze drifts down, and with a sinking heart she sees the source of the sound. She struggles against the handcuffs for a moment, but even that is tiring. As she slumps back against the wall she tries to remember how she got here. All she can conjure are quick flashes, indistinct snapshots that only serve to make her more confused: a twig snapping, the fain smell of peppermint, a vaguely familiar voice.

Before she can piece anything together, the door creaks and slowly opens, bathing her in a brief splash of light. Then it snaps shut and she's submerged in darkness again. She can hear footsteps, but her eyes take so long to adjust that the figure is already crouching down beside her before she can even see them. She blinks up at them, takes note of the features, and refuses to let them converge into a recognizable face.

And yet, unbidden, the name spills from her lips.

"Wren?"

He smiles, as if her tone is affectionate rather than disbelieving. Their eyes meet and his smile widens, despite the utter lack of any warmth in her coffee-colored gaze. She regards him from a distance, letting no hint of emotion pass over her face. Emotion is weakness, and god, she needs to be strong now.

"Spencer." He reaches towards her, and looks hurt when she scrambles away from him. "Are you okay?"

"Am I -?" She lets out a bark of laughter, thrown off by his audacity. "No, I'm not okay."

He seems alarmed at this reaction. She wonders what he expected, and then, even more terrifyingly, what he's going to do now. For the briefest instant she had considered the possibility that she had misinterpreted, that he wasn't a part of this; but he's made no move to free her, and he looks more confused than concerned.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks.

She's not quite quick enough to cover her surprise. She has no choice but to recognize that Wren is a monster, but he's not playing his part. It's like he actually cares, and that makes it harder to hate him. Suddenly she finds it hard to meet his eyes.

"Let me go," she says softly.

"What? Why?" His voice is sharp, and it makes her flinch. He goes on, making a conscious effort to soften his voice, "Why would you want to leave, Spencer? We can be together."

Once those words would have melted her heart, but now she must turn to stone if she is to have any chance of surviving. She bites her lip and turns away from him, falling into a resolute silence until he accepts this temporary defeat and leaves the room. As soon as the door slams behind him she allows herself to break down, falling in on herself until she's nothing more than another shadow blending into the unfathomable darkness.

Better to be a shadow than a demon.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

By the time Spencer has been there a week, she has come to understand the rules. She must not speak out of turn. She is not allowed to ask questions. And she must never, ever, say _no_. Sometimes she thinks about her old life, about the girl she used to be. How far she has fallen. Even if she escapes from this hell – and each day that slips by makes that possibility seem ever more unlikely – she knows she will never be the same. How can she go back to caring about grades and colleges and field hockey, when she knows what darkness there is in the world?

Night is beginning to descend; she can only tell by the drop in temperature, because the windows are boarded up and the door rarely opens. When it does, only one person ever comes in. The second day she was there, she tried looking around the room. It seems to be some kind of cabin, made of splintering wood and smelling faintly of mould. But then Wren had decided she was too curious, too adventurous, and had looped a chain through the handcuffs and attached it to the bed. Now she can't even stand up.

The door swings slowly open and she closes her eyes, knowing what's coming. His footsteps today are light, almost bouncing, as if he is happy about something. He crosses the room quickly and sits down beside her; she can sense his presence, and it has begun to evoke a heart-pounding terror in her. She feels his hand cupping her chin, his breath tickling across her cheek.

"Open your eyes, sweetheart," he says softly.

Although she doesn't want to, she knows it will be worse if she disobeys. Her eyes flicker open and she looks at him, or rather through him. She doesn't want to meet his eyes, to see the coldness there. It's the kind of coldness that burns like fire.

"That's my girl." He smiles, his hand drifting down until it comes to a stop on her chest, above her heart. Then he tilts his head, concentrating. She wonders if this is what he's like with his patients: moving slowly, touching gently, seeming like he cares. "Your heart's racing. Are you okay?"

He always asks her that, and her answer never changes. She shakes her head, biting back tears. She can't let him know how scared she is; she has a feeling that will only encourage him anyway.

"Let me help." He's already reaching for his doctor's bag.

"No," she protests weakly, seeing what he's withdrawn from it. This time she can't hold back the tears; they spill down her cheeks, making tracks in the dirt that seems to accumulate overnight. "Please, Wren, I don't…"

"Shh. It'll be okay."

She feels a slight pinprick in the crook of her arm, and then the world starts to go fuzzy. Although she's still terrified, it's in more of a distant way. She feels him rubbing her shoulder, but it's not really hers. Her body doesn't belong to her anymore. He hasn't given her enough to knock her out – that would take the fun out of it. He just wants her to be more… docile.

"Please don't," she mumbles, but then the drugs kick in and she can barely keep her eyes open, let alone fight him off.

His hand slides down to her thigh and he gives it a squeeze. She wants to push him off, but she has no energy. He grins, knowing she's powerless to stop him.

"That's my girl," he says again, leaning in to kiss her.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

There was no choice but to learn to cope. Wren would visit her every day, sometimes multiple times. In the mornings and afternoons he would bring her food and water, and at night, when he came, he would often give in to his more basal instincts. She hated those nights, but more than that, she hated the nights when he would just sit beside her and talk. She had once fallen for his accent, the soft, slow way he spoke, the way he'd slip in British phrases just to make her laugh. But that was Before.

One night he comes into the room in a foul mood, and she flinches, knowing he will take it out on her. He sits down on the end of the bed, rests his head in his hands, and lets out an angry sigh. If they were friends, as he seems to believe they are, she would ask what's wrong. But the only reason she would want to know what's wrong would be so that she could make sure it kept happening.

He sighs again, and then he looks up. His face lights up when he sees her, as always; he looks at her like she's a garden of flowers, and he takes delight in their beauty despite the fact he knows he's going to crush them.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he says. "I don't want to get you all upset. I've just had a tough day at work."

She doesn't look up at him. Unless he commands it, she avoids all eye contact. She pushes herself further against the wall, as far away from him as she can be, and rests her head on her knees, staring straight ahead.

"I feel better now," he goes on. "Do you know why that is?"

A shiver runs through her. She knows where this is going; they've danced this dance before, him leading and her reluctantly following. But she feels like she's out of time to the music, out of synch with life.

"Spencer. I asked you a question."

There's a warning tone in his voice. He doesn't hurt her often – not really, anyway – but when he does, it's enough to make her wish she'd gone along with what he wanted. Her eyes linger on a still-healing cut on her arm, a reminder of one such occasion. She mumbles into her knees. "Because you're here with me."

"That's right." He reaches out to stroke her hair. "And why does that make me happy?"

She licks her dry lips, burying her face further into her knees. Then she forces herself to look up at him, anger rising up in her at the sight of his smug smile. There's real tenderness behind it, and she knows he cares for her; but if his love for her doesn't prompt him to do the right thing, what use is it?

"Because I'm your girl," she says softly, too weak to fight.

"That's right." He keeps stroking her hair, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

She doesn't love him, but she can't quite bring herself to hate him either. Especially not in moments like this, when he seems less like a monster. He's almost like the old Wren, the one she fell in love with.

But she knows she needs to get away. She should be formulating a plan, trying to trick him into freeing her, or finding a way to contact the authorities. He's delusional, thinking she loves him. And he's dangerous, he's proven that already.

In some ways she is his girl. He will always own a part of her, and even if she does escape, she knows she'll never be free of him.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

The next time he's in a bad mood doesn't go so smoothly. She's using her nails to carve into the wall, keeping a tally of how many days she's been in here. She thinks she's already miscounted; when she gets too upset or angry Wren drugs her, so she's reasonably sure there have been entire days when she's been out. She shudders to think what he did to her during those times.

"What are you doing?" Wren asks sharply, the door banging closed behind him.

She turns to him, shrugs, and then turns back to the wall. "Keeping count."

He walks over to her, looking at the tally. Thirty nine vertical lines. "Has it really been that long?" he asks. "I feel like it was only yesterday."

"Like _what_ was only yesterday?" She's not sure what it is, but something about his demeanour today irks her. "When you drugged me and kidnapped me and started _raping_ me?"

Something about him is different today. Normally when he sees that she's upset he soothes her, or at least he tries to in the only way he knows how. But today her anger seems to ignite something similar in him.

"You should be grateful," he spits. "There are people out there who are a lot worse off."

"I doubt it."

As soon as she says it, she knows she's gone too far. Wren's eyes get darker, clouding over with fury. He bends down, and she thinks he's going to hit her. But instead he slides a key into the lock of the handcuffs, turns it, and lets them fall off. She stares at him, wide-eyed: this is the first time they've come off in those thirty nine days.

"Get up," he commands.

She's too shocked to move; he gives her a second, and then he grabs her arm and yanks her roughly to her feet. She lets out a little squeak, which prompts him to push her up against the wall. He leans in to her, close enough for her to smell the peppermint on his breath. "Do you know what I could do to you?" he growls.

"Wren -"

"I have been good to you. I've given you food and water, a place to sleep. I've shown you how much I love you. Is that not _enough_ for you?"

His eyes are wild now, and though she meets his gaze, she feels like he's looking right through her. He's half-crazed, seemingly not aware of what he's saying. She tries to push him off, but every time she does he just shoves her back against the wall.

"You are lucky to be mine, Spencer," he snarls.

He slams her against the wall again, and that action breaks her. She dissolves into tears, barely able to hold herself upright as terror overwhelms her. As suddenly as it came on, Wren's fury vanishes. He sees her knees giving and he gently helps lower her to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Spencer," he says wearily.

She looks away, wrapping her arms around herself. He bites his lip, and then he sees her wrists. They're raw and bloody, from being in handcuffs for over a month. The sight seems to make him faint.

"Let me take care of that." Before she can protest he's pulling some supplies out of that damn bag he carries everywhere. He quickly cleans her wrists, and then carefully bandages them. She winces, but she doesn't dare say anything. When he's finished he looks as if he's going to leave, and for a wild moment Spencer wonders if she'll be able to spend the night without restraints.

But then he reaches over and deftly attaches the chain to her leg. She's still attached to the bed, still kept like a prisoner, but at least she has the use of her hands now. She nods at him, appreciating the small comfort. He smiles in response, kisses the top of her head, and leaves.

In another life, he could have been her boyfriend.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

Spencer and Wren had always had strong, vibrant personalities. Because of that they hadn't always gotten along well; sometimes they clashed, like waves against rocks, wearing away at each other until they were forced to back off. But when he kidnapped her the dynamics changed; he suddenly had all the power, and she was forced into an uncharacteristically submissive role. For a while that had kept her relatively safe, but it was only a matter of time before elements of her old personality came bubbling up.

By her count she's been here for fifty two days, and it's been three days since Wren has touched her last. She'd thought she would feel relieved, grateful for this temporary mercy, but instead it made her feel agitated. She couldn't help wondering if he'd been absent because he was planning something more horrible for her, but what could be worse than this?

As he walks in her gives her brusque greeting, not even bothering to attempt to butter her up with endearments. This is a bad sign, and it rubs her the wrong way. But she doesn't comment on it, just watches as he comes over to her, his black bag swinging by his side. He sets it down on the floor and takes a moment to assess her appearance. She's dishevelled, her hair tangled, her eyes dull, and her collarbones jutting out; she's a sad parody of her former self.

He kneels beside her, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his mouth. But she's in no mood to put up with him, and she yanks it away. His eyes widen in surprise; it's been a long time since she last tried to fight him.

"Spencer, come on," he pleads. "I just want to be with you."

"Wren, no." She pushes him away. "I don't want to do this."

"Yes you do." He presses his lips against hers and catches her hands when they fly up to fend him off. Then he moves back a bit, so he can get a good look at her face, try to read her expression. "Why are you fighting this?"

"Because this is wrong," she snaps.

He leans back, confused. In his mind, this is natural. She should be falling at his feet, desperate for him to lavish attention upon her.

"I love you, Spencer."

The words sting her heart, making her feel cold.

"No, you don't." She shoves at him again, but his grip on her hands tightens. She keeps struggling against him, and when she manages to break his hold on one of her hands she uses it to hit him, over and over again, as sobs burst through her body.

"Spencer," he says sternly. He lets go and moves back, eyeing her with concern. She throws herself at him, fists flying, pulling tight the chain around her ankle. He dodges out of the way, more sad than surprised. "I don't want to do this, but I'm worried you're going to hurt yourself…"

He pulls a needle out of his bag and she scurries back at once.

"No, Wren, I'll -" Her words break off into a gasp as he grabs her and presses the needle into her skin.

The sedative works quickly; within minutes she is feeling calmer. She waits for Wren to force himself on her, but he doesn't move. He's still just sitting there when she finally drifts off.

When she wakes up in the morning, the handcuffs are back on.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

She never fully remembers how she had ended up here. For a few days after she arrived she would get flashes, little snippets of that night, and she was able to piece them together in a relatively coherent if incomplete memory. She had been walking home after a solo trip to the mall when Wren had approached her. Although she was a little fuzzy on the details she knew their conversation had been normal; he'd asked how she was, offered to drive her home. She'd politely declined, and they'd gone their separate ways.

But that wasn't the end of it. He'd followed her, caught up with her half a block later, and drugged her. The next thing she could remember was waking up in the cabin. Where she was and how exactly she got here, she never quite remembered. Still, there were clues.

She's particularly agitated one night. The previous day Wren had given her a new sedative, and it seems to be reacting badly with the other drugs in her system. That combined with lack of sleep has put her in a bad mood. When Wren tries to touch her she snaps at him and tries to shove him away; and although he usually makes an effort to be calm around her, today he snaps back.

They eye each other, two predators sizing each other up. Then she remembers that in here she is not a predator: she is trapped, helpless. Sometimes the thought makes her depressed, but now it makes her angry.

"Get away from me, Wren." Her voice is hoarse but firm, and he looks for a moment like he might obey her.

"You don't want that," he says instead, gently resting his hand on her knee. She pulls it away from him, the movement accompanied by a fierce and very unambiguous glare. "Spence -"

"Don't call me that." She glares at him a moment more, then lets her gaze drift back to the boarded-up window, imagining the world outside. The life she used to have. The people she left behind. "Only my friends can call me that."

"We're not friends," he says. For one glorious instant she thinks he's finally going to admit to his mistake, finally realize how wrong all of this is. But then he cups her chin with his hands, turning her head so she has no choice but to look at him. "We're more than that. We're -"

"If you say soul-mates I'm going to scream," she interrupts harshly. Her voice, which is normally a whisper, has risen almost to a shout.

Wren's eyes widen, alarmed. He looks quickly around the cabin, as if he's expecting a squad of police officers to storm the place. "Spencer, be quiet."

"Oh, you want me to be _quiet_?" There's a challenge in her eyes and a threat in her voice. She is too tired and too impatient to care about anything, even her own safety. She takes a deep breath, which is just enough time for Wren to work out what she's going to do, but not long enough for him to stop her.

Then she starts screaming.

He frantically tries to get her to stop, alternating between threats and promises, but she keeps going. He even slaps her, although he usually doesn't resort to such blatant violence. His eyes fall to his doctor's bag, which is just out of reach, and then he notices a scrap of material near his fingertips. It was a cloth he'd been intending on using to clean up some of her cuts, but it had fallen to the floor when she'd pushed him earlier. Now it will be put to a different use.

He grabs it and lunges towards her. The screaming is immediately muffled as he shoves the cloth into her mouth and quickly ties it around her head. She continues struggling, but the screams gradually fade to sobs; eventually she collapses on the cold ground, sobbing so hard it looks like she can't breathe. He wants to comfort her, but she has to learn.

Later on, after he's gone and darkness has fallen, she realizes that she did learn something. If he needs her to be quiet, it's because there's someone nearby who might hear her.

And if they can hear, maybe they can help.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

The quieter Spencer becomes, the more liberties Wren takes with her. When she stops fighting his touch he takes her handcuffs off; when she stops trying to push him away he ups her food allowance. And the first time she initiates the kiss, he's so stunned that he doesn't even try to take advantage of her.

By the time she's there a hundred days, Wren is starting to trust her. She's playing it carefully, doing her best to placate him. As long as she doesn't put up a fight, he's happy, and as long as he's happy, she's safe. She's beginning to lose hope that she'll be found, and she wonders if her family is still looking. If they ever looked at all.

But Spencer is a fighter, and it will take more than this to break her.

One hundred and thirteen days after her kidnapping, she gets her chance. It's night, and Wren has come to see her. She hasn't had to wear handcuffs in a month, but this is the first time he's trusted her enough to take the chain off her ankle. She rubs the place where it was, feeling the skin tender and sore to the touch.

Wren notices the action and gives her a sad smile. "I hated having to do that to you, love. But I was starting to think you'd never come around."

He's so enthused by her apparent acceptance of her fate that he doesn't notice the darkness in her tone as she replies, "Well, things change."

He smiles again, warmer this time (although it doesn't quite negate the coldness she still sees in his eyes), and moves towards her. It takes all her courage not to step away. Instead she forces herself to meet his embrace, pressing her lips against his and wrapping her arms around his neck. She is repulsed, disgusted by both him and by herself, but this is what she must do.

They fall onto the bed, which aside from being horizontal offers no comfort, and continue. She's not sure how far she'll have to take this; she needs to get him to let his guard down, and to do that she may well need to take this all the way. She grits her teeth and does what she needs to do.

When they finish he rolls off her and lays beside her on the bed, letting out a moan of pleasure. He's so relaxed that he hardly notices as she disentangles herself from him and pads across the floor. She's halfway to his bag by the time he catches on, and she reaches it before he reaches her. She'd been hoping she would have time to go through it and find one of the more powerful sedatives, but that doesn't look like it will be an option now.

Instead she snatches it up, swings around, and slams the bag into Wren's face. He lets out a surprised grunt, but he doesn't even stumble. She gathers her strength and tries again; this time the bag connects with a sharp _thwack_ and he falls to the ground. Without wasting a second she clutches the bag to her chest and hurries to the door. It's locked, of course, but she knows he keeps a spare key in the bag.

She searches frantically for it, her hands shaking and her heart racing, glancing back every few seconds to check that Wren is still out. Finally her fingers close around something small and cold, and she triumphantly pulls it out and shoves it into the lock. As she starts turning it she hears a noise behind her and immediately realizes her mistake.

She should have hit him harder.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

If her plan had worked, she would have been free. But when it fails she becomes more of a prisoner than ever. Wren has taken her apparent betrayal very hard, and for a week afterwards he won't even look at her. He stops coming to visit her so often, and at first she's grateful; but slowly she begins to miss his presence. She misses human contact, and if it meant she could have it, she would even accept his touch.

Spending so long on her own is surprisingly tiring. The silence unsettles her, and she finds ways to fill it: she recites monologues and poetry, she sings to herself, and she even talks to herself sometimes. She's not good company, even to herself, but it's better than nothing. As she retreats further into herself Wren begins to trust her again. He takes her silence for submission, and he thinks he's broken her spirit. At first he had intended to rein in her passion, charm her into sharing her spark with him, but at last he had settled for taming her.

What Wren doesn't realize is that she is not quite broken. Her spirit is sleeping, dormant, biding its time while she gathers her nerve. She doesn't try to get close to him again – he's wise to that game now – but she stops actively fighting him. She lets herself go limp, get distant, and allow those things which must happen.

It takes him longer to trust her this time. The handcuffs stay on for another two months, and the chain on her ankle for another three after that. By the time she is finally free of all restraints, she is physically too weak to hurt him. She can only manage to cower in the corner, and even then she doesn't usually bother; if he wants her, he will have her.

She has been there three hundred and twenty nine days, all of which blur together in a mosaic of agony and depression. She has lived through more trauma than anyone should ever experience, cried more tears than she'd believed possible, and wished she was dead more times than she will ever admit. But what she doesn't know is that it's almost over.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

Wren surprises her that day with a change of clothes. It's been months since he last did that, and she appreciates it. She doesn't even mind too much that he watches her change, his eyes hungrily taking in her emaciated body. Let him have what's left of her.

As she tosses the old clothes on the floor Wren rises from his place on the bed and comes over to her. He grabs her more quickly than she can react, but he's eager rather than aggressive. She melts into him, letting him do what he needs to. But as they tumble to the bed she feels something in his pocket: his cell. An idea blooms in her mind.

Today he wants to savour the moment. She hates it, but she knows better than to anger him, so she lies back and thinks of something else. When he's finished she slides out from under him and crouches down beside the pile of clothes, both his and hers. She quickly dresses in her new clothes, but picks up her old shirt.

"What are you doing?" he asks, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on an elbow to look at her.

She straightens immediately, clutching her shirt to her chest, and turns to him. "I just… do you mind if I keep this?"

He narrows his eyes slightly, the tiniest bit suspicious, and she does her best to give him a smile. That seems to be enough to assuage his fears, because he offers her a smile in return and says, "Of course, love."

She watches while he gets dressed – which he does very slowly, as if expecting her to be admiring his physique – and then waits until he has departed before she unrolls the shirt and pulls out the cell she'd hidden there. With quick, nervous glances at the door, she flips it open and dials 911.

To her utter relief the cell has reception, and somebody picks up almost immediately.

"911, what's your emergency?" The crisp voice of a female operator comes through, slightly crackly but fully audible. Aside from her own and Wren's, it is the first voice she's heard in almost a year. The sound makes her feel weak at the knees, and she actually sinks to the floor, cradling the phone against her ear.

"My name is Spencer Hastings," she whispers. "I… I don't know where I am. Somebody kidnapped me, his name is Wren Kingston, and I -"

She breaks off as the door handle starts to turn.

"Miss?" asks the operator. "Miss Hastings, are you still there?"

The door swings open and Wren steps in, his face animated like he's about to tell her something funny, but then he sees the phone in her hand and his eyes go wide. His hand flies to his pocket, and his eyes lock onto the phone as he realizes what's happened.

"Spencer, what is this?" he asks, his voice even.

"Help me," she says into the phone, and then hangs up as Wren comes over to her. Mutely she hands the phone over, and he curls his fingers around it, knuckles going white as he tries to control his anger.

"What have you done?" He looks at her and then away again, as if he's disgusted.

She shakes her head, not sure what to say that won't make her situation worse. Suddenly he grabs her by the arm, yanking her to her feet.

"What have you _done_?" he repeats, shaking her.

"Wren -" she gasps, trying to pull herself free.

His grip tightens and he starts dragging her towards the door.

"Wren, what are you doing?" Her voice is trembling; normally this would prompt him to start comforting her, but now he is all business.

"We're leaving," he states simply. "We can't stay here anymore."

He kicks the door open and marches through, still dragging Spencer behind him. She keeps struggling and protesting, but he takes no notice of her. This is the first time she's been outside in months, and even though they step into a quiet forest, it all seems unnatural. As he pulls her further into the trees she stumbles over logs and rocks, unused to having to walk any distance over a couple of meters.

Wren is impatient with her, and that makes him more rough than he usually is. His grip on her arm is hurting her, and she says as much, but he just raises an eyebrow and carries on. But as they flee the scene, Spencer becomes aware of a noise in the distance, something high-pitched and growing louder. Wren hasn't seemed to hear it yet, so she keeps her mouth closed.

It's only when the sirens are almost on top of them that he finally comes to a surprised stop, looking wildly around to try to pinpoint their location. For a moment it looks like he's considering leaving Spencer behind and running for it, but instead he pulls her closer to him and kisses her. She pulls away, glaring at him, but he's too distracted to care that she doesn't share his sentiments. He grabs her again and takes off in the opposite direction.

This time they've only been running for a couple minutes when they come to a stop. The sirens are almost deafening now, and then abruptly they cut off. A voice rings out through the woods, but it's too distant for them to make out the words.

"Spencer." Wren turns to her, his eyes glistening in the moonlight. "We need to split up. Promise me you'll come back."

She shakes her head, about to protest, but he kisses her forehead gently and says, "It's okay. I'll find you. Now run."

She's not sure whether it's a threat or a promise. In a moment he's gone, dashing through the trees, and she stands there still, frozen by indecision and confusion. But then her instincts kick in and she starts running the other way. Her run is more of a stumble, but it's still movement, still an escape. She runs until she can't anymore, until her legs give out and she tumbles to the ground.

There are shouts in the distance, and they intensify the longer she lies there. Suddenly she feels a hand on her shoulder, and she knows he's come back for her. She closes her eyes and curls in on herself, willing him to go away.

"Miss, are you all right?"

The voice is not his. The voice is not even familiar.

She opens her eyes and sees a man standing there, concern written all over his face. She tries to respond but no words come out. He reaches down and helps her to her feet, saying, "It's not safe here, we have to go."

There's still shouting somewhere in the distance, and a gunshot, and the sirens start up again. She lets the man lead her out of the woods, although she is limping and trembling and terrified.

"Miss Hastings?" he asks as they reach the edge of the woods, revealing an ambulance and two police cars.

She gazes up at him, at the first new face she has seen in a year, and the realization settles over her as she nods to let him know that yes, that's her. That she's still Spencer. What's left of her, anyway. He sits her in the ambulance while the paramedics start to look her over, asking her all sorts of questions she can't answer. Everything is slow, blurry, surreal. But there is one thing she knows.

The nightmare is over. She is safe. But she will never be free.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X


End file.
